


love me (if that's what you wanna do)

by zoeyclarke



Category: Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (TV)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Bickering, F/M, Internal Monologue, Making Out, One Shot, and lots of it lmao, but also i regret nothing, enemies to lovers (kind of), it's canon leif is bi and guess what? so is zoey, mentions of clarkeman brotp, this is a super wordy fic and for that i apologize, zoey and leif are dorks and i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: Anyway, Leif isn’t exactly sure how it starts. All he knows is that one moment, he and Zoey are bickering. Then suddenly, they’re doing something else.
Relationships: Zoey Clarke/Leif Donnelly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	love me (if that's what you wanna do)

**Author's Note:**

> so i used to, like, barely ship these two, but now i ship them a lot. i blame y'all in the zep discord (you know who you are), because if it weren't for our discussions and mtg's angelic voice, this fic might not exist. this takes place sometime in the not-so-distant future post 1x12, but there's nothing angsty, just understated (?) sexual tension and heated kissing. i know i probably went overboard with the description and their inner thoughts, but i just have so much fun writing these characters so *shrug*
> 
> title is taken from "love me" by the 1975, and lyrics in the story are from "love me," "i put a spell on you" (because of course), and "toxic" by britney spears.

In her life, Zoey Clarke has had her fair share of regrettable hookups in between all those “unnecessarily complicated” relationships. For example, there was the guy she took home from her own brother’s wedding— a cousin of Emily’s, she thinks— to whom Zoey slurred, _“You’re— you’re not here with anybody, right?”_ before drunkenly gluing her lips somewhere in the vicinity of this unsuspecting (but nevertheless pleased) stranger’s mouth and neck region. 

The next morning, Zoey hid in her bathroom and called Max (who had been unable to attend the Clarke-Kang nuptials due to it overlapping with a reluctant visit to New York after one guilt trip too many from his mother). _“Listen,”_ she whispered urgently, _“I hate labeling people’s attractiveness numerically as much as the next semi-decent person, but I swear this guy was a solid seven last night, at least. Maybe a six. And now... well, now he’s just a six.”_

Zoey had broken the pact she made with her inner, stronger self to _not_ get inappropriately drunk at David’s wedding. But she couldn’t help it; she was a teensy bit jealous. Not to mention after the catastrophe now known as Traingate occurred, she needed a pick-me-up and that pick-me-up’s name was tequila. (And anyway, Zoey never knew a wedding dress could somehow get more twisted than her headphone cords. She’s still sorry.)

Just a few months after that disastrous decision, Zoey turned twenty-five. Now that she was halfway through what was apparently supposed to be the most “fun” decade of her life, she vowed to be done jumping into things. She thought she owed that to herself. Then exactly two days later, she kissed a stranger at a New Year’s party Max dragged her to, and Zoey ended up dating that girl for a couple months. And, well, Zoey thought she owed _that_ to herself too, because as someone who has a birthday four days after Christmas, she _always_ gets combination birthday/Christmas gifts, so she deserved to give an extra little present to herself, even if said present turned into someone possessive and emotionally abusive. (Oops.)

In the three and a half years since, Zoey has tried her best to improve herself. The problem is, people are _attractive._ She has to remind herself time and again of New Year’s Party Girl, and David’s Wedding Guy, and Grocery Store Girl, who she cried over while surrounded by half-empty cardboard boxes in the middle of moving into her apartment two years ago. (This left poor Max— who had dutifully volunteered to take part in the dreaded act of Helping A Friend Move— absolutely bewildered, until he noticed the box of store-brand pasta clutched in Zoey’s hands, and he realized this episode was, indeed, about that bitch Grocery Store Girl.)

So, yeah, it’s safe to say Zoey Clarke has learned her lesson when it comes to poor romantic choices. She needs to take her time, gradually invest affection in someone, and reciprocate the same amount of Best-Friend-Comfort to Max through his own tough break-ups.

No. More. Bad. Decisions.

* * *

In a span of five seconds, Zoey is lifted up onto a desk which just so happens to be the same standing desk she has always inwardly rolled her eyes at. (Stupid Leif with his stupid back issues. Maybe if he wasn’t so damn _tall,_ he wouldn’t have to be hunched over all the time, and Zoey’s neck wouldn’t hurt from the laborious task of making eye contact with that piercing blue stare.)

However, it being a standing desk _does_ solve that irritating height difference dilemma. Her ass is now pressed almost painfully onto his previously-spotless keyboard, mashing the keys to make a million characters invade the lines of painstakingly programmed code on the screen. Zoey’s spine scrapes the computer monitor when she leans back, and with one more little scoot, she sends his nearby bicycle helmet clattering to the floor. 

The five heated seconds pass by in a slow motion blink, and Zoey’s unplanned, unexpected (unintentional? un- _everything)_ makeout partner steps away, leaving her lips cold. His breath comes out in a ticklish cloud which causes a shiver to ripple over her skin. She can’t believe that only a moment ago, they had been arguing. 

As usual, they are the last two people left on the fourth floor, and it’s a little past 10:30 at night, and as his superior Zoey really thinks he should have known better by now than to act all high and mighty. In the past few months she has managed to wean most of her team off that toxic sludge called sexism; but apparently once it’s been almost six hours past quitting time, all bets are off and either party is free to call each other out on their bullshit. Which is exactly what he and Zoey had just been doing only a moment ago... until the angry nerd lingo on their lips faded away and was replaced with each other’s _mouths_ instead. Now Zoey struggles to remember what they were even saying before.

Even with Zoey sitting on his stupid standing desk, her feet swinging limply and making her feel like a child in a booster seat, he still towers a few inches over her. How did she end up making out with a goddamn _skyscraper?_ How tall _is_ he? (And up until five enormous seconds ago, Zoey had always suspected him to be more robot than human, more _anything else_ than human, except where poor peer reviews are concerned.) There must be some ill-intentioned motivation behind this, something cruel and unfair, and yet— Zoey had leaned into his advances, too. Or maybe it was her who initiated it.

She meets eyes with the one and only Leif Donnelly and heaves a giant sigh. What kind of fucking mess has she gotten herself into now?

* * *

Leif had promised himself that he would be better than this. Granted, it _is_ his own fault for foolishly trusting himself, but _still._ He can do better than Zoey freaking Clarke, who just so happens to be his boss _and_ his most persistent rival.

For as long as he has known her (which is five years, two months, and thirteen days... not that he’s been counting, he just knows these things off the top of his head. And he clearly remembers the annoying group of noobs that she and Max were a part of, who arrived two years after he and Tobin started), Leif has only appreciated Zoey for her style, however repetitive it may be. She might not be knowledgeable about brands, but she can rock a nice solid color cashmere over a peppy print. Leif has found himself looking forward to seeing how she’ll put together her preppy look on any given day. It’s only because she has an eye for looking good, _not_ because he likes her or anything. It’s definitely _not_ because she may or may not have a face that looks good too. Not at all.

Today she is wearing a black and white pinstripe collared blouse under a fuzzy blue button-up and damn it, how does she do it? They might as well have planned a twin day, because here Leif is in his own light blue cardigan and thinly striped tie. Their outfits match so perfectly, _too_ perfectly, and Tobin had spent all day making fun of them for it.

Anyway, Leif isn’t exactly sure how it starts. All he knows is that one moment, he and Zoey are bickering. Then suddenly, they’re doing something else.

“Leif, I don’t know _why_ you act like all of my methods are invalid. I know for a fact,” Zoey says, spinning around in her chair and aiming an accusatory index finger at him, “that you write in the journal I gave you on my first day as manager. You do it and yet you _still_ refuse to admit that it’s therapeutic.”

Leif sighs. He sincerely regrets sharing that whole my-younger-brothers-are-more-successful-than-me insecurity with her. Even though she had kind of forced it out of him, which is something intuitive she seems to be talented at. But does Zoey seriously think a dumb journal can replace actual therapy? He makes a mental note to vent about it later, and to write it in red ink to emphasize his anger. Because red things annoy the hell out of him. Example A: red hair, for no particular reason. (And yeah, just because he does use the journal doesn’t mean he has to _like_ it.)

“There’s no reason to bring up the journal thing. Or literally any of the other things you were planning on mentioning,” Leif replies, barely throwing a glance at her over his shoulder. But then she huffs, and the noise urges him to turn around. He doesn’t _not_ notice the way her nose is scrunched up in irritation, and how her eyes have stolen the fiery gleam out of her hair in the dim lighting.

“You just _love_ provoking me, don’t you?” Zoey asks, and _wow,_ he’s surprised that she is already snapping at him this early. Then again, it isn’t exactly _early_ anymore, it’s like 11 PM or something, but _still._ If Zoey loves wearing things with buttons so much, Leif might as well push her buttons. (Oh god, wait, does that sound sexual? And if so, workplace harassment sexual or... another kind of sexual?)

Leif conceals wiping the sweat from his brow into neatly slicking back the strands of tired hair that have fallen on his forehead. The movement morphs into something involving his entire arms, which he slowly crosses over his chest. He leans back against his desk and stares at her, unimpressed. “I know, right? I could’ve _sworn_ that it’s the team leader’s job to provoke people and get them to _work.”_ Pushing off his desk, he glides across the short span of floor space between them, not removing his eyes from her for a second. “Maybe that promotion _isn’t_ the right fit for you.”

“Leif, we have talked about this,” Zoey begins, and he can tell she is trying _so_ hard to keep her tone even, but failing miserably. “It’s been a few months now, come on. I did _not_ write that peer review about you, and you need to respect me as your manager. Equal respect, right? Treat me how you— or, wait, treat others how I— dammit, why does my brain think this is a tongue twister? I mean, treat others how you want to be treated.” 

Clasping her hands together, Zoey stands up to face him, but somehow her being on her feet only makes the entire one foot difference between them _more_ pronounced. And that’s another reason why Zoey Clarke annoys the chinos off of him (in a very _non_ -sexual way): she’s so damn _tiny._ Every time Leif is forced to make eye contact with her, he has to crane his neck downward like he’s squinting at the floor to search for a missing earring (or nose piercing, if 2007’s emo Leif Donnelly has any input in this). So yeah, Leif is _tall,_ and Zoey is _small,_ and it’s nobody’s fault but genes, and damn it Leif’s neck hurts.

“Right,” he responds. It both is and isn’t a prompt for her to go on, but she takes the bait nonetheless.

“With the success of the Chirp, you have proven yourself. And you proved your skill and capability with the SPRQWatch before that, and likewise with all the other projects before _that._ You are _very_ good at what you do. So what is it, Leif?” Zoey steps closer, and it’s as close as she can get without risking puncturing his precious bubble of personal space. (Truthfully, if Leif could, he would designate a six-foot-wide margin around himself at all times, to be broken only when he needs Tobin to hold him when they’re watching a scary movie. But, alas, life’s necessities aren’t as keen on social distancing as Leif is. Thank god for isolation pods.)

“What is... what is what?” he says, caught off-guard by her question. Never mind that whatever just came out of his mouth sounded _incredibly_ stupid, albeit gramatically correct. _Why_ is she staring at him like that?

“Where does the insecurity come from, hm?” Zoey tilts her head, and Leif swallows, throat constricting. “You _know_ you’re good. You make sure all of us know that you know every chance you get. So why fight me? Why be so misogynistic and insubordinate? Why must you act like I’m the most incompetent person to ever exist? You’re either intimidated by my programming skills, which is doubtful but not implausible... or you think I’m—”

“Stop,” Leif interrupts. A wall of silence slams down between them, and at this point they’re standing so close to each other that this metaphorical wall is definitely pinching some toes. Zoey doesn’t have to finish her sentence; they both know what has been implied, what has been left unstated but is unable to be taken back. Leif wants to say the thought has never occurred to him before, but... no, it has definitely been festering for a while now, like a disgusting, open sore on his back that he can’t bring himself to directly examine but knows is there.

But his command only pins down her words for a moment until her tongue wriggles itself out of the lasso again. “Or is it... both?” she mumbles.

God, Leif hasn’t been this aggravated since the guy he hooked up with a few months ago told him TED Talks are a pretentious waste of time, and that BART is a far more eco and time-friendly alternative than riding a bike, and that acronyms suck just because. (In the back of his mind, Leif thinks Zoey might have something to say on that topic, because he definitely noticed the one time she gave up and came into work wearing a NASA t-shirt. Acronyms are cool as fuck and the words that are concealed within them are fun to spell out, okay? Jesus.)

Anyway, no. Leif will absolutely _not_ allow her to think that she has the upper hand over him when it comes to programming skills. The other thing, that nasty unmentioned sore, however... that’s another story.

“No,” he growls, hugging his chest even more. He cannot believe it’s now _her_ provoking _him._ What compelled the universe, the cruel author penning this disaster titled Leif’s Life, to make Zoey Clarke the dominant force here? How the tables have turned— or, as Zoey’s typically twisted tongue would put it, how the turns have tabled. “I am more competent than you will _ever_ be. And for your information, I _do_ use that stupid journal, but only to sketch caricatures of people I don’t like and cats I do like!” The lie of omission rolls off his tongue smoothly enough, but it also comes paired with an increasingly enraged voice that rises in pitch rather than volume, to his utter mortification.

“Oh, I bet you do,” Zoey laughs, nodding along to his words. “But you know what? I don’t even care if that’s the whole truth or not, because either way you _are_ using the journal, and that proves at least one of my ideas as team leader has stuck with you.”

Leif sneers and leans down toward her. “Maybe if you weren’t such a tryhard, you wouldn’t celebrate this as some big victory.”

Zoey leans closer to him as well. “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a self-righteous ass, I wouldn’t be so amazed that you’re actually listening to others for once.”

His smirk falters for a moment. There are those words again— _self-righteous._ He blinks down at her, and she blinks up at him, and then some invisible force pulls them both all the way forward; again the universe is flailing them around like marionettes. The space between them goes extinct like the dinosaurs (and Leif wishes he didn’t just make that comparison in his head because _Jurassic Park_ is most definitely filed under the scary movie category). 

Leif bends down while Zoey stands on her toes and attacks his lips with the hungry force of a bear fresh out of hibernation. He blindly throws his arms forward, tangling his fingers in unsurprisingly soft hair. She fastens her hands around his biceps, wrinkling the fabric of his cardigan— but to be fair, he’s also mussing her annoyingly pretty hair. Their bodies are kind of doing their own separate thing at this point, leaving their consciences scrambling to catch up.

Blood roaring in his ears, Leif backs up towards his desk, Zoey following his lead step by step. In one fluid motion, they spin around so that he can perch her up on the tall platform. Her legs swing out and grab around his thigh, yanking him close so they are pressed chest to chest. For a second Zoey ducks her head, breaking the kiss and gasping to catch her breath. He thinks he hears her utter a stupefied swear. Then, slowly, she lifts her eyes to his. Instead of the literally anything else Leif was expecting, however (regret, maybe, or shame), he finds lethal, unyielding ice.

“What—” Leif starts too soon, and has to take a minute to get his bearings. “What, um... what are we doing?”

“I— I don’t know.” Zoey’s throat visibly trembles around a gulp. The peaks of her incredibly-structured cheekbones gleam. She turns her gaze downward and directs his attention to the current position of his left hand, which has unintentionally planted on the firm curve of her ass. “You are...” She inhales sharply and shakes her head. “... the worst.”

“The absolute worst,” Leif says, and he isn’t sure if he is talking about himself or about her, but with the way she’s staring into his soul at the moment, he isn’t too concerned about specifics. Driven by his inexplicable desire for the very attractive woman currently enveloped in his arms (okay, maybe his desire _is_ pretty explicable), Leif starts in for another kiss, only for Zoey to duck out of his reach. He groans. “Okay, it’s settled, it’s _you_ who is the worst.”

 _“Please_ shut the hell up,” she responds, the words pushing through her gritted teeth in a stern hiss. She toys with her lower lip, biting it in a way that makes Leif kind of wish it was _his_ lip she was biting instead. The electricity crackling between their glares speaks volumes, and at last Zoey indulges him again and recaptures his lips.

Leif throws all his naughtiest tricks into the kiss, the kind of stuff usually reserved for sloppy makeouts in bar bathrooms. She scrapes her teeth along his bottom lip, which urges him to slip his tongue into the sweet cavern of her mouth. The sensation shoots straight to his core. A deep-throated moan shudders up his throat, and its force is so great Leif thinks for a moment it might be his heart coming up his windpipe instead. 

Because it hasn’t been swatted away, Leif’s hand instinctively squeezes her ass; this elicits a whimper from Zoey which travels straight into his mouth. It’s a noise Leif never imagined he would hear from this particular person. Not Zoey Clarke. Not his manager. Not the woman who gave him shit for liking a fruity cocktail over that acidic, bile-like hard liquor she prefers. Not the petite redhead who giggles like her laugh is a secret she’s never shared with anyone before. Not the girl who’s first words to him five years ago were _“Sooo... coding, am I right? Cool stuff, with all those numbers and brackets and... yeah. Here I am talking about coding like I don’t know anything about coding. I am... going to walk away now. Ciao.”_ Not that Leif has made a conscious effort to preserve that statement in his mind. It just happened that way.

And now Leif is utterly intoxicated by her. Zoey’s tongue is doing a tango with his as if their mouths alone are inebriated and they’re literally anywhere else besides the dimly-lit bullpen at a quarter after eleven. Leif can’t say he hates it. Twelve hours ago, they were both in this same exact place, sharing a concentrated silence with the rest of the team, drumming a rhythm onto their keyboards. Twelve hours ago, Leif and Zoey were in an entirely different world, he thinks.

* * *

Twelve hours ago, unbeknownst to him, Leif was in the middle of an energetic heart song performance. In the last ten minutes before Zoey’s lunch break, Leif’s innermost feelings decided to assault her with a confusing and enigmatic show which gave her zero clues in determining how to help him.

He hopped away from his desk (because, of course, he can’t just hop up out of a chair like a normal person), twirled among the cluster of isolation pods (which were looking really tempting right then), and refused to give any specific direction to his longing stares. Zoey has prided herself on becoming super observant in the past few months since she gained her power, yet _still,_ to her dismay, Leif offered her _nothing_ here.

_You got a beautiful face but got nothing to say ..._

_Let’s be friends_

_And portray we possess something important_

_And do the things we’d like_

_We’ve just come to represent_

_A decline in the standards of what we accept!_

“Cool, cool. Thanks for sharing.” Zoey ndded stiffly, her stomach rumbling as she turned to watch Leif circle back to his desk. He jumped along to the upbeat instrumentals, limbs outstretched and nose turned up. Zoey hated to admit that the guy _did_ have some good moves stored somewhere deep within that twiggy body of his, but then again, only her power could actually take credit for this, sooo... who knew if he actually had it in him? 

(For now, though, she could at least admire him from afar. Because chances were this was a heart song about Joan, who he might not be over after all, or hell, maybe even Tobin. Zoey always thought they could be cute together as more than friends, like a dynamic duo of sexism and bro-ism. The fact that Leif was still clearly single didn’t ruffle Zoey’s feathers one way or the other. She just happened to _notice_ that he wasn’t with anyone, and that was perfectly fine.)

So Zoey watched him sing the final repetition of the chorus of some weird song she had never heard before in her life (and she made a mental note to ask him what wash setting he put his cardigans on to keep them from getting pilled, because that really is _some_ feat and she had been meaning to ask him that for a while now).

_And love me_

_If that’s what you wanna do, oh_

_And love me_

_If that’s what you wanna do, oh_

The music cut off and Leif was once again staring into his computer screen as if it held all the secrets to the universe. (Zoey has attempted finding the secrets to the universe many times using this method, to no avail. It only took getting a musical superpower to realize the universe would never give up its secrets, though.)

“Hey... dude,” Zoey said hesitantly, strolling up to his desk and giving a muffled cough into her fist beforehand to not startle him. “How’s it goin’? Making any progress on the—”

“I’m working as fast as I can, Zoey, and you breathing down my neck seriously isn’t helping. I’ll get these lines done quicker if you just leave me alone.”

Irritation bubbled in her gut, but she tossed back a couple of metaphorical antacids by saying, “Fine, then, I’ll leave you to it. But I have to ask— when you wash your sweaters, do you put them on permanent press or delicate? Because I never know which—”

“Oh. My. God. Are you telling me you don’t dry clean this?” Leif demanded, torn all too easily out of his stupor. He reached forward to pinch the edge of Zoey’s sleeve between a thumb and index finger. “Poor thing,” he said, oddly sympathetic to the _shirt_ while admonishing Zoey, the actual _human_ in this equation. 

“Can I get a ‘yikes,’ ladies and brogrammers?” Tobin added, marching past with his latest steal from the sixth floor’s raw bar.

“What have we told you about unnecessary comments, Tobin?” Zoey and Leif snapped at the same time. In reply, Tobin merely raised his palms in surrender and turned back to his monitor.

Zoey returned to her seat and heaved a huge sigh. There was no way Leif would just open up to her like any old book, and she did _not_ have the time to dissect lyrics and feelings right now. So she filed away Figuring Out Leif Donnelly’s Issues, and for the time being assumed he is currently into... someone. Not that she was anywhere close to knowing who that someone is.

* * *

In her entire first year working at SPRQ Point, Zoey could probably count on one hand the number of times she locked eyes with Leif. For five years, after all, he was just her arrogant coworker, and she swiftly learned to keep interactions with him minimal, which was an easy task considering she had Max to chat with, and Max was really all she needed.

But then she got the promotion. And then a few months later, Max was promoted to the sixth floor and subsequently fired. And now here Zoey is, locking a lot more than just eyes with this prickly human equivalent of a cactus who also happens to now be her _subordinate._ Both she and Leif seem to have a bad habit of hooking up with people they shouldn’t. Exhibit A: Leif’s disturbing illicit romp in the sheets with Joan; Exhibit B: Zoey’s forbidden moonlit smooches with Simon (who _is_ at least in the separate marketing department, but also _was_ engaged).

Zoey wonders what choices in her life led up to this moment now. She’s swapping saliva with Leif like they’re two freshman band geeks sharing their first-ever kiss in a fumble of inexperienced hands under the bleachers on the football field. That’s what this fling, if it can even be called that, with Leif feels like: some weird high school thing where they’re too immature for it to be called a romance but also too weirdly attracted to each other for it to _not_ be some kind of relationship. Zoey cracks open one eye and almost expects hydrangea bushes to have materialized around them. And any moment her dad will peek through the branches, sigh, and say, _“Come on, Comet. You know better.”_

 _Yes, Dad, I_ do _know better,_ Zoey thinks. She sends the message up to where her dad’s spirit is, hopefully among the stars she likes to gaze at through her telescope. She never thought she would be doing this with _Leif,_ especially not while stone-cold sober. But then Leif grinds his hips into her and Zoey forgets about past shame and dearly departed fathers.

She knots her fingers in his hair and Leif groans out a curse. She tugs lightly, and Leif tilts his head back, gazing down at her through half-lidded eyes. One flex of his jaw could cut through steel. The iciness she finds in his stare is a sharp contrast to the fire in her belly. “Strange,” she hums, eyes flickering across his face. “You dress like a pimply fifteen-year-old who’s dad owns a yacht, but you’re not exactly like the facade you put out, huh, Leif?” Her hands push downward, jerking him to her eye level so she can nibble at his earlobe. “You like it _rough.”_

She hears Leif’s loud gulp, but to her surprise he responds, “Don’t act like you don’t like my style, Zoey, if you even know what style means. I bet if you had the cognizance to know which stores you shop in, you’d realize we frequent the same Brooks Brothers location.”

A fresh wave of heat pools in Zoey’s gut. His barbed words and heated breath might as well be toxic gas, but she likes inhaling him. Completely hooked, she lunges forward again, trailing her lips down the side of his neck and nipping along his collarbone. Leif unconsciously thrusts forward again, and that’s when the music starts. Two heart songs from Leif in a single day? To whom does Zoey owe the displeasure? (Thanks, universe.)

Overtaken by the smooth choreography, Leif steps out of Zoey’s reach, leaving her to watch and gulp oxygen from her perch on his desk.

_I put a spell on you_

_‘Cause you’re mine_

“Ohhh no,” Zoey says, her laugh coming out as an incredulous snort. “Nuh-uh. You are _not_ singing the same thing to me that you sang to Joan.”

But he is. Circling behind her and back around, Leif continues his crooning, leaning in close to her with slitted eyes before tilting away again, refusing to give her the satisfaction of even a chaste peck on the cheek. His voice is like butter on hot toast.

_You better stop the things you do_

_I ain’t lyin’_

_No, I ain’t lyin’_

_You know I can’t stand it_

_You’re runnin’ around_

_You know better_

_I can’t stand it cause you put me down_

_Yeah, yeah_

“You really are the worst,” Zoey grumbles, because she knows he’s right. Heart songs are never wrong; people can’t control their innermost feelings, let alone when those feelings explode into song and dance. That doesn’t mean Zoey has to like it, though.

Leif smirks at her. He slides back into his starting position with Zoey’s lips on his neck, finishing up the song with poise. Zoey takes note of his disheveled hair and tie, and takes pride in the knowledge that it was _her_ who nudged Leif Donnelly ever so slightly off the pedestal of perfection.

_I love you anyhow_

_And I don’t care_

_If you don’t want me_

_I’m yours right now_

_You hear me_

_I put a spell on you_

_Because you’re mine_

Then the song ends, and, too caught up in their mutual intoxication, a long pause falls over them. Zoey isn’t sure how long this zone out lasted, but apparently enough time has passed for him.

“Well?” Leif asks, raising his head. Her light pink lip color is smeared all around his mouth. Zoey realizes he is still expecting a clapback to his earlier insult, _wants_ it, even. He’s shamelessly feeding into their typical dynamic. But that was in a world pre-heart song, a heart song which, Zoey also realizes, might not have been his first heart song directed at her.

To shut him up, Zoey kisses him again, effectively snatching any potential retorts right out of his mouth. Leif tastes like sour candy and disobedience, potent and fierce. She hooks one leg behind his ass, holding him in place.

“What. The. Actual. Hell?”

Zoey and Leif spring apart, her natural clumsiness returning in full force as she nearly tumbles backward off his desk. Luckily Leif catches her wrist, keeping her mostly upright as they both swing wide eyes toward the source of their interruption.

Tobin is still walking over from the elevators, his shocked voice projected across the open space. “I come back to grab the bottle of Batra Sauce I forgot, and instead I walk into the middle of a scene from _Magic Mike?”_ he says, and Zoey assumes he has never seen _Magic Mike._ Tobin grimaces, flicking off his cap and partially hiding his face behind it. “Oh god, please don’t tell me you guys got news of impending nuclear annihilation and you’re now getting a head start on repopulating the planet. Because that would _not_ be the ideal sitch, bro.”

Zoey feels the searing hot blush staining her cheeks, and Leif’s face looks similar as he scratches behind his head and shoots a rueful glance at his best friend. “Tobes, you really think me and Zoey would have an ugly baby?” Leif asks, and wow, _that’s_ what Leif is concerned about here?

“No, what, are you kidding?” Tobin rolls his eyes. “That child would be beautiful, but god, at what cost? They would be this little, pasty, cat-loving, sweater-wearing person who would constantly be correcting me and making subtle references that no one else gets, and... huh, I guess that’s where your similarities end,” he says with a shrug.

Zoey and Leif are momentarily struck silent, her especially still trapped in the shame of being caught red-handed making out with the most annoying person at SPRQ Point. Then finally Leif speaks up again, “Okay, so... the sauce, right?”

“Right!” Tobin chirps, trotting up to his desk and retrieving the homemade condiment. “I met this cute chick Autumn, she has an expertise in making coffee drinks so I was like, ‘Well, I just _have_ to give you a sample of my gourmet one-of-a-kind hot sauce! Frank _wishes_ he could achieve this level of sinus opening.’ But anyway.” He nods over at the discomfited pair. “Catch ya later at home, homie,” he says to Leif, and adds with a mocking eyebrow wiggle at Zoey, “Z-Dawg.” Then, thankfully, he departs.

Zoey almost wanted to inform him there’s a 99% chance he’s courting Max’s ex, but she stays silent. Her lips ache. She can’t bring herself to look over at Leif.

“Well,” Leif clears his throat. “We deleted the bug that Joan was, uh, bugging us about earlier, so...”

Zoey leaps down from his desk, nearly losing her balance before her feet can find the floor, because of course she does. “Yeah,” she clicks her tongue. “Yep. And she’ll know we stayed, like, _super_ late to fix it—”

“— and that we stayed on task the entire time,” Leif supplies. Finally they share a look again, reaching a mutual understanding that Tobin definitely has their backs. If he values his life while living under the same roof as Leif, he won’t spill their dirty little secret to Susan from HR.

“Great, great. So, um, I... will see you tomorrow. Have a good night, Leif.” Zoey scurries back over to her station, blindly throwing essentials into her bag and sliding on her denim jacket.

“Have a good night,” Leif echoes. She can feel his eyes on her like hot coals, following her all the way across the room, and even slicing through the elevator doors like lasers. She isn’t able to take a deep breath until she is out of the building and surrounded by fresh air again. Zoey speed walks several blocks until she’s positive Leif has no way of sniffing out her trail (not that he would, and not that she wants him to). Then she flings herself against the side of a corner store, pressing two trembling fingers to her lips. What the hell did they just _do?_

... and why does she want to do it again sometime?

A car approaches on the adjacent street, rolling through the stop sign before continuing past. Zoey barely catches a snippet of the music blasting from the vehicle’s speakers. It’s a familiar song, one she used to hear at the middle school dances friends would drag her to.

_With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride_

_You’re toxic, I’m slippin’ under_

_With a taste of a poison paradise_

_I’m addicted to you_

_Don’t you know that you’re toxic?_

If Zoey just so happens to glitch again and sing that exact song the next time she and Leif rendezvous on a late night at work, she wouldn’t be surprised. Because she has a distinct feeling that there _will_ be a next time. She can’t stop thinking about it all the rest of the way home.

But for now, all Zoey can muster is an unnerved mutter of “What the fu—”


End file.
